This little light of mine...

I need to get back to basics. Stop eating when I'm full. That's all--the only rule. It's so fucking hard. Why do I feel this need to stuff myself?

Ruby is attached to her things. Her bottle (don't tell her doctor...she was supposed to be off it six months ago!), her blanket and pillow. And her kitty. A little stuffed leopard that she carries with her everywhere. In fact, she lugs the whole load around with her everywhere. It's something to see, let me tell you. She can barely stand, this tiny little thing carrying around twice her bulk. She's into "shower"s right now. She means a bath, and she likes to give her kitty one in the real live kitty's water bowl. When she loses her security net, she freaks out like the true diva that she is. "Oh no...what'd I do?" Over and over and over, standing at the laundry room door wilting like Scarlett O'Hara until finally, finally her kitty is dry and fluffy and all is right with the world again.

I feel like that sometimes. Like my fat is my lovey. I need it. It insulates me and protects me. It's the bulk I carry around, and when I lose any of it, I feel lost and afraid. As long as I'm fat, no one pays much attention to me, and they don't really expect a lot of me unless I want them to. I know you know what I mean. I disappear, just a pair of feet balancing twice my natural bulk. Sometimes I want attention, and when I do, I have to really shine to be seen through my layers. My light is pretty well buried, and I'm honestly afraid to let it shine. So, I lose 30 pounds and panic. Getting under 300 pounds takes away the panic, and suddenly eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's doesn't seem so bad. Sure, it's a days calories...but what the hell. I DESERVE it. I have to live, right?

I am done hiding. I'm afraid I'm going to have to go through the two weeks of hell again, to get my eating back under control. Damn.